


Two Mochas And a Number

by heartsofftoyou



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: I might continue this but ive been meaning to continue a lot more than just this for a while now, M/M, Meh, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, dont look at this I wanted to flex my writing hand again, lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 21:58:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17108855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsofftoyou/pseuds/heartsofftoyou
Summary: Tom has a shitty nine to five that he's usually on time to. Today is not one of those days.Tord comes in during one of his shifts. Shenanigans and banter ensues.Tom/Tord, slow burn, coffee shop au. What more could you ask for?





	Two Mochas And a Number

It's cold, first of all. He notices it blearily, as what feels like ice beneath his feet hold his weight when he swings himself out of bed. He'd go put on a shirt, or turn off his fan, or literally anything sensible to fix the problem, but his brain is stuck like his feet in boot-up mode, so he can only swear loudly before admitting defeat and retreating back into the safety of his warm blanket. Warm enough, anyway. It's better than getting stuck under a blast of frost from his ceiling, which still feels really fucking terrible against his meager defenses--sweatpants and a ragged, patched-up quilt--but it's better than braving his room to change into something warmer. Or flicking off the switch that's so, so far away. Too far away. Too much of an effort. He'll just freeze instead.  
  
  
He also notices, after a while, that the patter of pebbles against his roof is less a small avalanche and more rain droplets for the third consecutive day that week. The crash of thunder rumbles right after his realization, and not long after that, his stomach with it.  
Things he needs: food, better clothing, better AC, the rain to stop.  
Things that happen: he stays in bed for another 10 solid minutes just staring blankly up at the off-white plaster of his ceiling. He blinks rapidly through the gusts of wind still blowing down on him--the fastest thing he’ll probably do all day, he thinks--before he rolls over, muttering complaint after swear after threat to his fan. It took too long for him to notice the weather, will take even longer for him to notice the time. 10:35, well after when his alarm should have gone off.  
  
  
Tom bolts out of bed with yet another cry, slipping across the icy floor over to his dresser and tossing on a light blue collared shirt. He trips over himself shimmying out of his sweatpants, but soon his jeans are on with his socks and then his checkered Vans, and then he’s hauling ass through the rain to get to his shitty nine to five barista gig. Four blocks from his run-down, two room apartment. With no umbrella. Eh, could be worse. He could get run over on the way, could skip his shift entirely and just go to the arcade, could get fired for that--  
  
He barely makes it through the door before bumping in to his shittiest coworker, literally, on their way out. Another break, it looks like. They exchange nothing more than mutual glares and a silent tumbleweed between them before Tom's pushing his way into the cafe and Asshole McGee is going off to... Well, whatever Assholes do on their break. Come to think of it, Tom doesn't think he's ever seen Asshole McGee not on break. He's never had a shift with them where they're not off doing something else far from him. Their loss, his gain, he supposes. He hates having to work with them.  
  
Once safely behind the café counter with nothing more than a stern look from his supervisor, thankfully, he lets his mind wander as it always does when he's not tending to customers. Thinking back to it, he should’ve noticed that the glare of sunshine through grainy windows was absent this morning along with his alarm and planned accordingly. He could’ve brought a hoodie, or his coat, or hell, even a longer-sleeved tee. Instead of being blinded and deafened awake, going through the short motions of showering, eating breakfast, and walking to work, he was frozen and booked it to his job in the rain after 20 solid minutes of zombified moping in bed. Could be worse, right? He could've caught hell from his sup, could've missed work entirely and gotten fired, could've done a million other things wrong and--  
  
His shift drags on as per usual, as he squelches around in his sopping wet uniform and watches the rain crash down in solid waves with little interest. It's rare that they put him out front--usually it's dish work or morning clean-up or anything that isn't talking to customers. Something about being an “abomination" and “off-putting to customers" on account of his do-harm-and-take-no-shit attitude. And complete lack of eyes. He's got some of his coworkers convinced that he's wearing sclera lenses just fine, but others aren't so sure about him. Asshole McGee actively tries to avoid scheduling their shifts with him, thankfully, so at least he doesn't have to hear their bitching that's usually about him. Even if it means their supervisor obviously favors them and not Tom.  
  
He knows why no one tries to talk to him. He's fine with it. He didn't come here to make friends, God forbid; he came here to make money. End of story.  
  
Even if it means that some of the customers who rush in see the understaffed cafe and the black-eyed punk freak at the front and just turn tail and run back out into the gloom. Fine, less work for him to do. Less money to make, sure, but less work.  
  
The bell rings again. Another customer escaping the gloom. Another fake smile and little greeting that Tom yanks himself away from staring absentmindedly across the street to deliver with practiced bullshittery. A smile that falls away into soft surprise as the customer approaches the counter softly, lowering a dingy, red hood and dark, yet colorful headphones to raise his too-green eyes to the counter in the front. Tawny, styled hair springs up miraculously from beneath the rain and cloth, along with the customer's shoulders and peaceful, yet bored look. This is new.  
  
"Medium mocha, whipped cream on top," he hums in an accent obviously not from around here, and Tom has to clear his throat from disuse before delivering the total and taking his name, change, and thanks. Tom thinks that should be the end of it, but Tord--foreign as all hell as he is--sticks by the counter for a few seconds more. He's shorter than Tom, even with the boots he's clunking around in that are tucked into ripped skinny jeans instead of the other way around. There's a messenger bag hanging loosely at his side too, now that Tom's noticing more. And what the hell is with his hair?  
  
"Just need something warm, y'know?"  
  
Tom looks up--not that Tord should be able to tell, since he's only moving his eyes--just in time to notice his mouth moving. A tooth gap peeks out at him, and Tom has to resist the strange urge to smile. This dude is an entire walking contradiction. He's obviously normal, yet he's talking to Tom at the shittiest cafe on the block. In the pouring rain. For a coffee he doesn't need. If he wanted something warm, he could go to the bustling diner across the street for a coffee and a breakfast.

If he wanted a conversation, he could've picked up anyone off the street to talk to. Doesn't need to bother Tom for it, as easy as conversation seems to come to Tord. Tom has to make his coffee anyway, so Tord is obviously in no hurry.  
  
Despite himself, Tom replies so as to not seem like a massive prick. He's in customer service mode, and needs the money. “Yeah. I ran to work in that mess, so I get it."  
  
"You walk to work?"  
  
"The exercise is nice."  
  
"Do you want a coffee?"  
  
That gets Tom to pause. He's a barista, not some stranger Tord's met on the street. He can get himself a coffee once his shift is over, and besides--he'll be here, not in the rain, for long enough to defrost. Just who the hell is this dude? "Apologies, sir, but I'm working right now."  
  
Tord shrugs, and fixes Tom with another lazy smile. "Doesn't answer my question. Would you like a coffee?"  
  
"I'm afraid I'll have to decline," Tom lies, completely unafraid of declining. Sort of. Tord is interesting enough that he'll probably miss bantering with him when he has to go back to staring blankly at nothing until the next customer decides to brave the rain to order something. And honestly, he kind of would like a coffee. Just not from here.  
  
"And if you didn't have to?"  
  
"I--What?"  
  
Tord is still at the counter, which would piss Tom off if there were any other customer behind him. Since there isn't, Tord's a distraction from his usual register routine of staring blankly at nothing until someone brave--or desperate--enough comes in. And as it is, Tord could fall into either category.  
  
Tord slips neatly along the line separating the two as he leans back against nothing, slinging his hands into his hoodie pocket. "You say you have to, but what if you didn't? What do _you_ want?"

Easy. Tom wants money, a better job, and warmer clothes. He could go for a coffee too, but he's on the job right now, so that's just be weird.

"One medium mocha, whipped cream," Tom instead repeats the order back to Tord, and pretends not to notice his pout as Tom goes to make it.

Tom's made coffee enough that he cobbles together a passing-grade cup, topped with maybe a little too much whip. Nothing to write home about, but Tord thanks Tom again with a smile and a look Tom doesn't quite understand. And more conversation that Tom surprisingly doesn't mind, because dear God is this job boring.

"How long have you worked here?" Tord leans back against the counter as he sips, looking at Tom over his shoulder. 

"Long enough." Tom starts wiping down his workspace, but he glances back over at Tord every now and then. "Long enough to never see you before."

"I just moved in down the road, been meaning to check out such a cute little place. I've heard it's a local hot spot?"

Tom has to resist snorting. The only hot thing about this place is the coffee, and even then he serves some pretty lukewarm cups sometimes. "Locally-owned and ran, yeah. Today's a slow day. No in-house entertainment."

"Do you get slow days often?"

"Often enough."

Tom finishes wiping down a cup his coworker had left under the counter when Tord goes comfortably silent, sipping at his drink. He eyes Tom for a while while Tom pretends not to notice--he's used to the stares--when, suddenly, Tord's back at the register counter, rocking back and forth on his heels. 

"Can... Can I help you?" Tom cocks an eyebrow, looking between the drink in Tord's hand and the man himself. 

Tord slips money across the counter without an order and smiles. "Nope, but here's a tip for if you ever do figure out what you want."

The obvious tip jar right next to Tom goes ignored as Tord turns on his heel and strides out, headphones and hoodie slid back on like an afterthought. Tom watches probably the strangest--and only--customer he'll have to serve all day go until he can't see him anymore, then turns his attention to the "tip" Tord had left.

Just enough money to get Tom a coffee, and, underneath the bills, a small scrap of paper with a phone number on it. 

He pockets it all with ease and resists the urge to smile.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been dead and changed my name! Here's a story.


End file.
